


there's a radiant darkness upon us

by middlecyclone



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Buried Alive, Fake Science, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6112792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlecyclone/pseuds/middlecyclone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you think it’s murder?” Jack asks.</p><p>“Those kids didn’t put themselves down there,” Eric says grimly. “Someone put them there. And it’s our job to find out who.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a radiant darkness upon us

**Author's Note:**

> This is a strange, oddly done retelling of episode 2x09 of Fox TV series Bones, “The Aliens in the Spaceship,” and I just want to say that I’m sorry. Nobody asked for this to exist. Nobody wants this to exist. I don’t even want it to exist, and I wrote it. If, for some odd reason, any other human being alive wants to read this: you don’t actually need any prior knowledge of Fox TV series Bones to understand what’s going on.
> 
> I've tagged this with 'Graphic Depictions of Violence' just to be on the safe side, but no violence actually occurs onscreen; there's significant discussion of death and violence, and a brief mention of suicide, but nothing too overtly graphic.

_Jack wakes up alone, in the dark, disoriented. He has no idea where he is–which is pretty unusual for him, at least these days. There’s a faint blue light that he suddenly realizes is the light of a car radio–but not his car radio. The dull ache in the back of his neck resolves into a stinging pain, and a cold realization unfolds in his stomach. Jack’s been drugged, against his will, and now he’s in a strangers car, in an unknown and dark location._

_This isn’t good._

_There’s a moan from the back seat of the car, and Jack turns around to see his best friend and coworker slumped across the bench seats, unconscious. “Shitty,” Jack says, breathless with fear, “oh my God.”_

_Jack starts to panic, just a little, when he tries to open the door and finds it an immovable force, no matter how hard he tries; he panics a lot when he rolls down the window and dirt starts to trickle in, because this is worse than he’s ever imagined. They haven’t just been kidnapped–they’ve been buried alive._

* * *

**48 Hours Earlier**

“We got a flyin’ saucer,” the park ranger drawls, and Jack rolls his eyes.

“It’s not a flying saucer,” he retorts. “There’s no such thing as flying saucers.”

“Let the man talk,” Eric says primly, “you never know what you might find out here.”

“Exactly,” the ranger says, smugly satisfied. “This guy gets it. Some local kids called it in–ran across this thing while foolin’ around in the woods. Saw something shiny, dug it up, looked inside, and–bam! Aliens.”

“Did you check it?” Jack asks.

“Yessir,” he says, “and I’m not sure if it’s aliens or not–but it’s definitely something. Which is when I called the feds.”

“And we’re very glad you did,” Eric says consolingly. “Jack?”

Jack’s already kneeling down, looking in the window of the strange metal cylinder sticking out of the ground. It’s nothing good–but it never is, really, once the FBI gets called in.

“It’s one of ours,” Jack reports. “D’you wanna take a look?”

Eric crouches down next to him, a warm small hand on Jack’s shoulder for support. “Oh,” he says sadly, looking down into the capsule. “That’s …”

“Two adolescent males,” Jack says, “and based on how tightly sealed the tank appears to be, they’ve been down here for … years.”

“I wish they’d been aliens,” Eric sighs, and then stands up.

“Alright,” he calls, “This is Dr. Jack Zimmermann, forensic anthropologist with the Jeffersonian Institution, and I’m Agent Bittle with the FBI. We’re going to need to pack all this up and take it back to the Jeffersonian, and pronto.”

“Do you think it’s murder?” Jack asks.

“Those kids didn’t put themselves down there,” Eric says grimly. “Someone put them there. And it’s our job to find out who.”

* * *

Eric’s in his office, looking through missing person files, trying to figure out who the aliens in the spaceship really were. He finds something that looks like it might be a hit when Jack calls.

“Hey,” Eric says, “any news?”

“Yeah, actually,” Jack says, “uh–one of them had severe lower-body injuries. Lardo put them in the simulator, and she thinks he was hit by a car, possibly by the person who trapped them down there. It looks like the other bled out from a stab wound. Self-inflicted, if I had to guess, trying to give his brother more air and more time.”

“Jesus,” Eric exhales, leaning back in his desk chair. “What a goddamn tragedy.”

“There’s more,” Jack says. “They were–”

“Twins?” Eric cuts in.

“Yes,” Jack says, startled, “how did you know?”

“Matthew and Ryan Kent,” Eric says, reading off the file, “they went missing in 2001. They were victims of a guy called the Grave Digger; this is kind of his MO. He kidnaps people, buries them underground, and then calls from an untraceable number with a digitally altered voice to ask for the ransom. If the money gets deposited in the offshore bank account, the GPS coordinates of the victims get sent and the victims recovered before their air runs out. If not? Nobody ever finds the victims again.”

There’s a pause, staticky and weighted. “That’s not good,” Jack says finally.

“No,” Eric agrees, “it isn’t,” and hangs up.

* * *

“Oh,” Lardo says, and turns bright red, “uh–”

“Just putting that out there,” Shitty says, shoving his hands in his pockets, “just trying to be … honest, here, no pressure–”

“No, no,” Lardo backtracks, “this is good, I’m just–surprised?”

“Hi,” Jack says, walking into Shitty’s office, “I need–”

“Jack!” Lardo squeaks. “Hi! I was just–leaving–”

“What was _that?”_ Jack asks, raising a pointed eyebrow at Lardo’s retreating back.

Shitty sighs. “We’re at a bit of an … impasse,” he says. “I said some things I probably should have kept to myself, and Lardo is processing.”

“You told her you liked her,” Jack translates.

“Shut up,” Shitty says amiably. “We’ll see.” He sighs. “How about you? Any romance in the field at that body pickup this morning?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at that statement, and Jack just stares him down.

“It was a _body pickup_ ,” he restates, “which should tell you everything. Also, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The entire US Justice Department can see you like him,” Shitty says. “And I’m better with dirt and bugs than people, but even I’m pretty sure it’s not one-sided. You should do something about it.”

“I’m not going to do that,” Jack says, “it would be wildly unprofessional, and–and he doesn’t like me, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

“You clearly have feelings for him,” Shitty says, “and it’s stupid to deny yourself happiness because of some false sense of–professionalism–”

“It doesn’t matter if I have feelings for him,” Jack snaps, and slams his file folder of case notes down onto the lab table, “and it doesn’t matter if he likes me back. The only thing that matters is that we–we can’t be together, not now and not ever.”

“You’re making excuses,” Shitty accuses. “You don’t care about the FBI’s rules against interdepartmental romance that much.”

“Yes,” Jack says, “I am making excuses. Because I ruin things, Shitty, I’m a ruiner, and no matter what you say I won’t ruin him.” He swallows, and stares into the middle distance for half a second, collecting himself and then slipping back into his scientist persona. “Mr. Knight, please run the residue from the boys’ clothes through the mass spectrometer. We need to try and find out where the Gravedigger grabbed them from.”

“Right away, Jack,” Shitty says, and then moves carefully around the lab table before tackling his boss and best friend in a huge bear hug. “I love you, buddy,” he says into the cotton of Jack’s sweater.

“I love you too, Shits,” Jack says, and smiles. “Now, the residue?”

* * *

“Hey,” Shitty says, entering Lardo’s office, “have you seen Jack around? I need to give him the results of the residue analysis.”

“I think he just left,” Lardo says. “Anything interesting?”

“Yeah, actually,” Shitty says. “All the victims of the Gravedigger were found with lots of gasoline and diesel particulates on their clothing. That, plus the car accident injuries you found, indicates–”

“Parking garages,” Lardo finishes. “That is good.”

“Thanks,” Shitty says, and turns to leave. “I bet I can still catch Jack on his way out, if I hurry.”

“Hey,” Lardo says, and touches Shitty’s forearm briefly, smiling. “Call me later, yeah? I think we need to talk about some things.”

“Yeah,” Shitty says, a slow smile breaking across his face, “yeah. Let’s talk.”

He takes the elevator down to the underground parking garage, lost in thought. Jack’s car is still there when he reaches the right level, but Jack isn’t–rather, Jack is a crumpled, distant shape on the concrete.

“Jack!” Shitty calls frantically, and breaks into a run, panic in his chest, and that’s when he gets hit by the car.

* * *

Eric pokes his head in Lardo’s office. “Hey, you still here?”

“Yeah,” Lardo says, “and Ransom should be in the back somewhere, but Jack and Shitty went home.”

“I’m just looking for an update on the Gravedigger case before I head out,” Eric explains. “Have you guys learned anything?”

“Yeah, actually,” Lardo says, “didn’t Jack call you?”

“No,” Eric says, “which is actually pretty unlike him.” He feels his phone vibrate in his back pocket, and smiles. “Oh, wait, I’m getting a call, that must be him–hang on a sec, sorry Lardo.”

He answers the phone without checking caller ID and feels his blood run cold almost immediately when instead of Jack’s comforting Quebecois accent, it’s a harsh robotic voice.

“Jack Zimmermann and Shitty Knight have been buried alive. Wire transfer $8 million to the following Grand Cayman account or they will suffocate to death.”

“Oh my God,” Eric whispers, blood draining from his face.

“What?” Lardo asks, standing up. “Eric, what’s going on?”

He holds the phone out, hands trembling, and hits speaker just in time for everyone in the lab to hear, “Upon receipt of the wire transfer, I will provide you with coordinates to Zimmermann and Knight’s location. This will be my last communication.”

“He’s got them,” Eric says, “the Gravedigger.”

* * *

“We’re fucking buried alive,” Shitty says. It’s all Jack can do just to nod, panic washing over him in waves.

“Okay,” Shitty continues, “well, this is terrible in all ways. How long have we been down here?”

“Two–two hours, if my watch is right,” Jack says.

“Uh, right, so … if this vehicle is 60 cubic feet of air,” Shitty says, calculating fiercely in his head, “and it’s been two hours, then that gives us … uh …”

“Ten hours,” Jack finishes. “After that, we’ll be unconscious, and after that … if nobody’s found us by then, we’re dead.”

* * *

“We have to save them,” Eric says, pacing back and forth frantically, “we _have_ to.”

“Yeah, but … where are we going to get 8 million dollars?” Lardo asks. “I know Shitty’s old-money rich, but he’s not 8 million dollars of it rich.”

“It’s Jack,” Eric says grimly. “His dad’s a former NHL player. I don’t know if he’s got 8 million, but he’s probably a lot closer than the Knights.”

“So call him up!” Lardo says, frantic. “We have to do something!”

“I’ll do what I can,” Eric promises.

* * *

“Hey, Shits,” Jack says, “I’ve got kind of a crazy idea.”

“Yeah?” Shitty says. “Well, hit me, bro. Crazy ideas are kind of my forté.”

“If we hotwire the cell phone to the car horn, do you think we can send a message out?”

Shitty sighs. “I dunno, man. We’re underground, the service probably isn’t great.”

“We can get a radio signal,” Jack points out. “We can’t be too far underground.”

“Point,” Shitty says. “The battery of the horn will burn the phone out in a microsecond, but if we can figure out some kind of resistor? I think we can get a few seconds. Long enough to send a short text message, at least.”

“What should we say?” Jack says. “A few seconds isn’t really long enough for the signal to be tracked, so we’ll need to make the message count.”

“Well, ideally we should give them location,” Shitty says.

“How?” Jack asks. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’ve been _buried alive_. There’s not a lot here to work with.”

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re surrounded by dirt,” Shitty counters. “And you may not remember this, but dirt? Kind of my thing.”

* * *

“Jack’s dad isn’t answering his phone,” Eric says, “or his mom either. Or Wayne Gretzky, although in retrospect that number I got off the internet may have been fake.”

“This is ridiculous,” Lardo says, “the entire force of the FBI behind us, and we can’t even figure this one thing out.”

“We _will_ get it,” Eric says, desperate. “We have to. Look, what–what do you guys have on the case so far? If we find the Gravedigger, we find Jack and Shitty.”

“He takes them from parking garages,” Lardo says, “which is what happened to Jack and Shits, too. He stuns them and kidnaps them and _leaves them to die–”_

“We have to keep working the case,” Eric cuts her off, “it’s our best chance. It’s up to us, now.”

“I–nobody’s ever caught him before,” Lardo says.

“Well, we aren’t just anybody,” Eric points out. “Look, we’re going to save them. We _have_ to save them. We can’t give up now.”

“Yeah,” Lardo says, “okay,” and gets back to work.

* * *

“It’s clearly coal-rich,” Shitty says, staring at his handful of dirt. “Which means we’re in Virginia.”

“Virginia’s kind of a big state,” Jack says. “Can we narrow it down any more?”

Shitty sighs. “If we had any benzophenone, maybe, but–”

"We have everything that was in your bag," Jack says, and starts searching through it. "Weirdo like you, I know you carry lab equipment around."

"Yeah," Shitty says, "but not  _benzophenone–_ "

“What’s this?” Jack asks, holding up a small bottle.

“Perfume,” Shitty says, “the nice kind. A present for Lardo. Even though I know she doesn’t give a fuck about stuff like this. I’m–I’m so in love with her, Jack, head over goddamn heels, and it’s turning me into a fucking romantic idiot.”

“Okay,” Jack says, “but will it work?”

“I–maybe,” Shitty says. Jack pours the perfume into his palmful of dirt anyway, swirls it around.

“Well, it smells nice, at least,” he says drily. “Even though Lardo doesn’t much go for perfume, I … I think she’ll like it.”

“Thanks,” Shitty says, heartfelt. “Hand me your camera.”

Jack hands over his DSLR and Shitty peers through the viewfinder, looking intently at the reflection of the pocket flashlight off the perfume-damp soil.

“Anything?” Jack asks.

“Yeah,” Shitty says, “ I know exactly where we are.”

* * *

Bitty’s phone chimes, and he glances down, heart stopping.”Its from Jack,” he says, and leaps to his feet. “It’s Jack!”

“What?” Ransom asks, turning around from where he’s re-examining the bones of one of the twins. “How is that even possible?”

“I have no idea,” Eric says, “but I _knew_ they would find a way.”

“What does it say?” Lardo asks, face drawn and anxious.

Eric looks down and reads off the screen, “ 6 7 16 M1.4,” he reports, and frowns. “Any idea what that means?”

“Maybe it’s just nonsense,” Ransom offers, “trying to send out any sort of signal so we can trace the signal?”

“We’ll try,” Eric says, “but a single text isn’t really long enough to triangulate position, especially not when we weren’t already tracking it.”

“And why weren’t we already tracking it?” Lardo snaps. “Come on, guys, these are their _lives_ we’re playing with!”

“Trust me,” Eric says, “I know, but there’s no way they should have been able to do this. It’s a miracle we have even this.”

“God, I hate this,” Lardo says, frustrated, swiping at angry tears. “I’m an _artist_. It’s my job to give a face back to the dead–but that’s not what we need right now. The person I love most is missing, and drawing a fucking picture isn’t going to get him back.”

“Yeah, well, feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to do much good either,” Ransom says. “C’mon, help us out with this message. It’s from Jack and Shitty, I know it means _something_.”

“I don’t know shit about science, or GPS coordinates, or whatever weird code the text is in,” Lardo says, “I don’t know what help I’ll be.”

“You know Shitty,” Ransom points out. “This is clearly his handiwork, and if it means something then you’re our best chance at figuring out what.”

Lardo stares at the screen. “6, 7, 16 …. if they’re not keyed to letters, then they’re probably just the numbers themselves. Shitty … if it’s from Shitty, it’s probably something to do with dirt or compounds or bugs or–”

“Compounds,” Ransom breathes. “If those are elements, then … carbon, nitrogen, sulfur? They’re buried in coal rich soil. Which is like, the whole state of Virginia, but–”

“The other numbers,” Eric says, “M1.4, that’s got to narrow it down somehow.”

“It does,” Ransom says, and starts typing furiously. “It’s the organic compounds in the soil that make each location unique … mascerals. If they’re in an area of M1.4, that’s rare enough to get pretty specific.”

“Plain language, Ransom,” Lardo says, anxious.

“I know exactly where they are,” Ransom says.

* * *

“There’s just no more air,” Shitty says, “it’s been nine and a half hours. We’re living on borrowed time, now.”

“There’s one more thing we can try,” Jack says. “If we set off the airbags, the force might be enough to blow us to the surface, as long as we’re less than four feet deep.”

“And if we’re more than four feet deep?”

“Then the force will turn our brains to jelly, and we’ll die instantly,” Jack says.

Shitty laughs bitterly. “Well, hey, at least we can still get into Harvard Business School. My grandparents would probably like me better that way.”

“Do you think it’s worth the risk?” Jack asks him.

“I think it’s our last hope,” Shitty says. “I think it’s our only hope.”

“We can put it off for as long as possible,” Jack says, “but once the air starts to really go …”

“If we’re going to die in this hell,” Shitty says, “I at least want to die trying to leave.”

Jack finishes fiddling with the wires to set up the explosion, and retreats to the back seat with Shitty, trying to give them both as much distance from the explosion as possible. After that, it’s simply a matter of waiting until the last possible moment.

“Jack,” Shitty says, voice cracking, “you’re my best friend,” and hugs him tightly for a long moment.

“You, too,” Jack says, and they touch the wires.

* * *

It’s a huge blank expanse of gravel, and Eric feels acid rise in his throat. If they’d figured it out an hour or two earlier, there might have been enough time to find them, but as it is? Jack and Shitty are on stolen time already, and it’s simply too large a location to be sure of finding them before they run out of air.

“Look for tire tracks, signs of digging, mounds or depressions–anything,” Eric yells to the swarm of officers, and starts jogging down the steep wall of the pit, desperate for any signs of them. He just needs a bit of luck–he just needs _something_ good to happen, on a day that’s only been filled with bad.

And that’s when they see the plume of dust rise off, roughly a hundred yards off. Eric starts sprinting towards it, his heart in his mouth, not daring to hope and not daring to remain hopeless. He drops to his knees and starts digging by hand in the dirt, stones tearing up his hands and knees.

Jack’s hand closes on his wrist, then, and Eric almost cries from sheer relief. Jack is much larger than he is, but the adrenaline rush is enough for him to drag Jack’s body out of the ground, arm muscles screaming.

“Shitty,” Jack chokes out, “Get Shitty–”

And there’s five, six, seven more officers all around, all of them digging; they pull Shitty out and Lardo’s there, sobbing from relief. “Shitty,” she says simply, and leans down and kisses him. “God, Shitty.”

They sit like that, a circle of joy and pain sprawled across the dirt in the early-autumn sun, until the paramedics come to bundle them back to the hospital and the world starts moving again.

* * *

They’re sitting on the steps of the Jeffersonian Institute, after. “I wish it _had_ been aliens,” Eric says, exhausted. “We could have had a full-on Mulder and Scully thing going.”

Jack blinks. “I don’t know what that means.”

Eric smiles thinly. “Of course you don’t,” he agrees, and then laughs, nearly hysterical and raw.

“Hey,” Jack says, and bumps Eric’s shoulder with his own. “I … I need to tell you something.”

“Shoot,” Eric says, and bumps him back.

“When we were down there,” Jack begins, and then pauses, stares at his hands on his knees, collects himself. “I thought I was going to die,” he finishes bluntly. “I _knew_ I was going to die. And the whole time, I was just thinking … I lost my chance. I knew, for so long, how I felt, and I wasted it, because I was too afraid.”

“How you felt?” Eric asks.

“About you,” Jack explains. “Shitty and I–we wrote letters, down there, in case our bodies were found. We didn’t want anything to go unsaid. But I’m still alive. I was given a second chance–or a third, or fourth, or fifth, really. And I just want to say … I love you, Eric. I’m _in_ love with you. And I was prepared to say goodbye then, but now that I’m back? I’m not ready to let you go. I love you, and I want to be with you, and I’m so tired of being afraid of what might happen. If I die tomorrow, I don’t want any regrets.”

Eric looks up at him, eyes huge and wondering. “Jack–” he says softly. “Oh my God, Jack–”

“I just wanted you to know,” Jack explains. “I know you don’t feel the same, but–”

“I love you, too,” Eric blurts, and pushes himself up the steps of the Jeffersonian to kiss Jack on the mouth.

“I thought you were dead,” Eric says, and Jack can feel his damp eyelashes on his cheek, can feel the

“I knew you wouldn’t leave me down there,” Jack whispers. “I knew you wouldn’t give up.”

**Author's Note:**

> The premise, the general overarching plot, a few lines of dialogue, and all the "science" are directly lifted from the aforementioned Bones episode. The rest of it is mostly original. Again: my apologies.


End file.
